I watched the sun rise while I wrote this morning. “Write about the quality of light shining through your window.” That’s what my exercise was today. I’ve written ten pages per day the past two days in some wild effort to fill my composition book by the end of the month.
There was no light shining through the window at 6:21 when I picked up my pen. There was a blue darkness that I spent about 10 minutes trying to describe. I did not succeed. I wrote “why can I think of no blue things in nature that are the same as this color?” Robin’s eggs, blueberries. Bahama shallows, Atlantic depths. Forget-me-nots, Plumbago. The white porch rails and white siding of our house were none of these colors. They glowed blue-white like they do in moonlight.
I continued to write as the sky lightened and the first rays of sun struck the tops of the pear trees in the neighbor’s yard, a subtle glow on their round crowns. A few minutes later, pink cotton candy clouds appeared as the sun climbed above the horizon. The sky was a little closer to Robin’s egg blue at this point.
I wrote and wrote, a whole lot of nothing. It’s amazing how much nothing you can write in 30 minutes. I’m not sure the point of it all, but it does feel quite good. I feel like I’m unclogging arteries. Cleaning things out. There’s nothing I’m preparing for, no book I plan to write, no great masterpiece. I’m just writing because I like to write.